


To Hold a Moon Beam

by lesqui



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Pre-Book 1: Throne of Glass, Slow Burn, Throne of Glass Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-03-29 14:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19021786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesqui/pseuds/lesqui
Summary: A warm fire in a dark night, a quiet plea for a smile, a kind touch in the darkness. Neither of them know what they're really doing, but they know that it's right.ORIn which Fenrys finds a house in the woods and a magic he's never known.





	1. The Whisper of Death

**Author's Note:**

> My first time publishing on here, and my first ToG work, so we'll see how this goes! This will have multiple chapters, but it won't be novel length.
> 
> This can easily fit into canon. Majority takes place a couple decades before ToG.
> 
> Enjoy!

The worst was the cold the crept beneath his clothes and skin until it sank down into his very bones, into the very heart and mind, and he felt as if he were going to go mad. He refused to stop, though, refused to go back to the city and the throne room – the bedroom that was waiting for him.

It was a small fortune, perhaps a gift of pity from the gods, that he hadn’t technically completed his task yet. That he didn’t need to go back yet. Back to Doranelle, back to Maeve, back to the brothers-in-arms who sneered and scoffed at him. _Maeve’s whore_ he was, and they seemed to take pleasure in reminding him; even Connall, sometimes, would join in.

Fenrys groaned softly, his wound stretching painfully as he pulled himself up the last bit of a steep overhang. He could feel the makeshift bandage sticky with his blood, could smell it, magic zinging through him with increasing desperation. He didn’t have the same healing skills as Rowan or Gavriel – that wasn’t what Maeve ever needed him for.

He managed to stand, to push himself up and stumble the few steps further, and then a few more, and more, and more _and more and moreandmoreandmore –_

If he collapsed, he wondered in what form death would greet him: freezing or bleeding.

He wondered if the others would care.

He wondered if Maeve would let him go.

* * *

Samira knew it was a bad idea to wander from her home from where she’d been watching him, that blonde-haired warrior covered in blood, watching as he barely finished his climb up the cliff, watching as he stumbling and collapsed, watching as he blinked at the cloud-covered sky before seeming to sink into the ground.

She knew it was a bad idea, but she also knew that she couldn’t leave him out there to the wights and the skinwalkers and the camazotz. So, with her loyal mountain cat watching from the doorway, she crept down the hill, minding the creeping fingers of twilight whilst avoiding the pitfalls she suspected the Small Folk commonly left around her property. She had yet to figure out if they were meant to protect or harm her, but she left out trinkets and food for them, anyways, exchange for their help or gifts to keep them from causing chaos on her land.

He was beautiful, even bloody and dying, long blonde hair swept back into a braid, skin a warm golden, shoulders broad, hands scarred and calloused. She was distantly curious, even as she inspected and tried to figure the best way to get him back to her small house, what he looked like with his eyes open, with life in his cheeks and words dancing from his lips.

A warrior, yes, she could tell, but maybe, maybe, _maybe he smiled._ It had been so long since she’d seen a kind smile, since she dared venture further into Doranelle than the small, human settlements that lay scattered at the city’s edges.

Samira exhaled softly. The best way – with that leaking wound and the uneven nature of the ground – would be to carry him. He was so big, though, and she was admittedly much smaller. Big and, as she began trying to move him, _heavy_. A deadweight of hard muscle and thrumming magic; it tingled her palms where she touched him.

The sun had finally set, and though the sky remained light, twilight was spreading quickly. Desperation tickled her stomach then, clogged her throat, and she finally managed to sit him up, twisting and maneuvering until her back was against his, until her arms were looped around his, and then huffing and gasping and fearful as the first sounds of the night’s demons began to stir, she _pushed_.

Up and up and up, until she was standing with him draped down her back, legs and feet trailing. She allowed herself a moment – only one – to gasp another breath, to gauge the path back up the hill to her house, and then she moved.

As fast as she could, tripping over roots and not quite managing to avoid those small traps dug in the ground by someone other than her. Olio, her mountain cat, stood from where he sat in the doorway, tail swishing, his long fur fluffing slightly in distaste and slight alarm as he scented the man she dragged with her.

“I know,” she gasped at him as she finally managed to get through the door way. Olio didn’t like the Fae, didn’t like any creature with magic. “But we can’t leave him to the demons.”

Olio’s pale blue eyes stared at her balefully, and she just _knew_ that he disagreed. She just kissed her teeth at him and set the man – the _Fae,_ because they weren’t human, and they weren’t men – down as carefully as she could. He still thudded slightly, still groaned and winced even unconscious, and she winced with him. “Sorry.”

Her clothes, freshly washed just the day before, were muddy and grass-covered, and when she pulled off her overshirt, his blood stained the back of it. She stared at it, Olio sniffing it before curling his nose up and wandering away. Well, it could be used as a rag, she supposed.

The night finished its arrival, clouds smothering the light of the moon and stars, and she could hear the night-demons rustling around outside, no doubt drawn to the blood of the Fae. She did her best to ignore it. Her house – distant was it was from any sort of civilisation – was safe. And, if they did get in, Olio was too used to domestic life to want to live anywhere other than in a house, and would defend his very comfortable living space.

She’d seen him take down a small bear one unfortunate evening a few years back; wights and skinwalkers and camazotz wouldn’t stand a chance.

This time she allowed herself two moments to breathe, one to clear her head, one to steady herself, and then she got to work.

* * *

The fire in the hearth burned large and illuminating throughout the night. Blood now stained a portion of the wood floor. An old sheet was used as bandages. Food and healing mixtures cooked on the stove.

Outside, snow began trickling from the clouds, the creatures of the night prowled and hunted, but the cold and the nightmares didn’t get into the small house, a bastion of warmth and safety against the hanging presence against Death.


	2. Ladies and Warriors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenrys wakes up and Olio doesn't like him.

Sound was the first to return. Birds chirping happily to greet the sunrise, an animal padding across wood floors, humanoid feet shuffling across the room. Then Fenrys smelled it all, the blood, the herbs, the food cooking, the musky scent of the animal, of – he inhaled deeply – a mountain cat.

He could feel the solidity of the floor beneath him, the heat of the fire beside him, the heaviness of the blanket on him, and when he finally opened his eyes, it wasn’t to the Afterworld or to Maeve’s court, but to golden sunlight streaming through windows and filling the small house that he was in. That, _somehow_ , _he was in_.

A human home. That scent, twined so tightly with the mountain cat’s, was entirely human.

And then he saw her, standing at the stove, swaying with exhaustion and humming to keep herself awake. Stirring – he scented again, with specific intent – a porridge of sorts, sweetened with honey and spiced with anise and cinnamon and cloves. It would be a good, hearty breakfast, and gentle enough it wouldn’t make him sick.

 _If she offered it,_ and that was when the full force of the situation struck him. He was in a human’s home, in a _woman’s_ home by her grace, which, considering the warnings given to human females, made her wonderfully brave and maybe a little stupid.

He was in a human female’s home, warmed by sunshine and a fire, and he _wasn’t dead._

And, he turned slightly and came face-to-face with the mountain cat, he was being watched, tracked, and monitored by pale blue eyes. In the morning light, they flickered like the shards of ice that would soon coat everything as winter set in more permanently. A dangerous, clever intelligence danced behind them, and he got the distinct sensation the animal was warning him off, warning him away. _You aren’t welcome, Fae,_ he seemed to be saying. Fenrys almost bared his own fangs in response, but the woman chose that moment to turn around.

He moved to face her as quickly as he could, pain lancing through him, and she paused where she stood, halfway between him and the stove. He could see her throat bob, could smell the slight jump of apprehension that flooded her, but – he scented again, just to make sure – she wasn’t scared.

Dark hair glimmered in the sun, tight coils of curls tied back by a strip of cloth wound around her head multiple times. Brown skin that appeared to glow in the morning light, but he could see the exhaustion that swelled and dragged beneath her eyes; she must have been up all night. Eyes dark enough to rival his, though when he met them, there was none of the death and shadows that swirled in his own.

She wore practical trousers and a blouse, feet clad in soft slippers that he doubted ever left the house. The clothes were baggy enough to hide details of her body, but he could see there was a softness to her, a gentleness that wasn’t sharp bone or hard muscle – something that wasn’t Maeve, and it sank into him and soothed him and he realised he hadn’t been breathing.

They remained like that, staring at each other. It seemed she hadn’t planned far enough ahead to know what to do when he woke, and he couldn’t help the small smirk tugging his lips up even as he tilted his head in greeting. “Good morning.”

She blinked rapidly, as if startled from some sort of reverie, and managed a small, shaking smile. “Good morning. How do you feel?”

Like he’d been dragged through all nine circles of Hellas’s realm. He didn’t say that, though. “Injured.”

And when her lips quirked up again, though only briefly, he could smell her amusement. She began her approach, with more caution guiding her movements. So, she had indeed heard the warnings of Fae males – of Fae, in general, most likely. Nasty, nasty rumours, for the most part. Perhaps she knew that, knew there was very little truth to them.

The cat moved to join her, walking alongside as if he were an honour guard, and she grinned down at him, that amusement flaring again. Beautiful, Fenrys decided then. She was human and stupidly brave and _beautiful._

She gestured the bowl she was carrying. “I have breakfast.” Her steps stopped just beyond his arm’s reach. “If you’re hungry.”

As if in answer, his stomach grumbled, and he saw her bite the tip of her tongue, as if to stop one of those lovely grins, as if to stop laughter. It was odd, how deeply and wholly he suddenly wondered what her laughter sounded like.

“I am,” he remembered to say, bracing on his arms and pushing up, wincing and growling and groaning until he was sitting.

She just watched, curiosity alight in those dark eyes. “Are you in pain?”

He almost barked a sharp answer, almost let those barbed, angry words escape, but the cat was glowering, and she was soft and gentle, and he exhaled long and slow. “Yes, but I can eat.”

She nodded, lowering herself to kneel and holding out the bowl. “I’ll get something for the pain.”

This close, he could smell everything that was her, every emotion, every drop of sweat, every glimmer of laughter. The scents that clung to her from the food and the fire and the outside. He almost thought he could smell the kindness that was in the proffered bowl of food.

After a moment, he accepted it, beginning to eat, slowly, trying not to wince. She was gone and back in half a minute, holding a cup of milky liquid. He scented it; poppy. So, she knew what she was doing.

He accepted that, too, with a grimace of thanks. She offered that small, hesitant smile again. “I need to go out and tend the garden. Send Olio if you need anything.” The cat – Olio, he presumed – shifted the glower to her, and she gave the cat another grin. “Just be nice, please.”

Olio’s tail swished in annoyance, but he settled onto the floor near Fenrys. For the woman, that seemed answer enough, and she turned towards her door. She swung it open before Fenrys realised he hadn’t introduced himself. How rude, Gavriel would scold in that fatherly way of his. Even humans deserved the respect of proper introductions.

Fenrys twisted towards her. “I’m Fenrys.” She paused, turning to face him again, moving a few steps closer once more. He tried to smile, tried to soften the hard lines of his face into something that was less _other._ “May I know your name, lady saviour?” Even injured, he could play the game of flirtation.

She bit the tip of her tongue again, and he scented her embarrassment at the title he’d given. She answered, though, eyes sparkling with morning sun and maybe even laughter. “Samira, warrior Fae.”

So, she could play the game, too. That was something delightful and invigorating, but he was too tired, too in pain to do much about it at the moment. So, he just tipped his head slightly. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She finally let him see that full grin, and it truly was beautiful. He was still staring in her direction even after she’d left, leaving the door cracked in case Olio needed out.

No, not like Maeve at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is already turning into something longer than originally planned. Oh well!


	3. Onyx in the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenrys is a shameless flirt.

Samira worked in her small garden, protected from the cold and snow by feeble linen barriers. It wasn’t the best or the strongest, but her fruits and vegetables didn’t seem to mind, flourishing well into the winter. And she, having lived outside of community and civilisation for half a decade, knew how best to preserve her food, to make it last until the spring rains melted everything to mud and flowers.

Small footprints decorated the edges of the garden when she arrived, from the Small Folk, she knew, but when she checked, only a few pieces of fruit were gone. A small, faintly amused smile lit her face. She could spare a few pieces of fruit if it helped them survive the coming winter.

There was something soothing and cleansing about working in her garden, about picking off the bugs and gathering the ready food in her baskets. About feeling the warmth of the sunshine through the pieces of fabrics stretched between poles above her head, about the quiet hum and vibration of the life around her.

So, she worked diligently and happily, talking to her plants and humming quiet songs, feeling the lull of the sunshine and trying to ignore the exhaustion that pulled at her. She couldn’t sleep the day away; she had too much to do. She had to chop more wood before another storm came, she had to start preserving some of the food she’d gathered, she had to gather the eggs from her chickens’ roost; and, if her brain still managed to work coherently after all that, she had to make a list of all the supplies she’d need from the nearest town. What would hopefully be her final run before the winter.

“I hate going to town,” she told the happily growing basil plant. It was a three-days trek in either direction, and she’d have to camp off the trail. “I always think that one night, the demons are going to get me.” Olio always came with her, her lovely, loyal, faithful mountain cat. But sometimes, sometimes she would hear the screeches and the whispers of movement, and would lay awake all night, wondering what it would be like to die.

The basil plant fluttered in a gentle breeze, and she sighed. “It would be better to go sooner rather than later.” The plant seemed to flutter in agreement.

* * *

It was nearing sunhigh when she finally returned to the house. Olio hadn’t come out to get her, so she figured everything was fine between him and the Fae.

Now that was an odd thing to think about, a Fae in her house, a Fae _male_ in her house. Oh, she’d heard the stories, of jilted lovers, of bastard children, of women being rejected by their families for the _dishonour_ of it all. She could recite the warnings her father had given her word-for-word, and still, still –

Fenrys, he’d said his name was, and his eyes were a beautiful onyx, almost like hers; and his voice was a sweet, deep rumble that vibrated from his chest and filled her with the thrill of speaking to a handsome masc; and he’d been polite, and tried to be nice, as much as he could whilst in pain, she supposed.

At least he hadn’t attacked her or threatened her. At least he hadn’t looked at her like she was prey, like she was an object to be hunted and captured and tamed. Even human males did that, and it curled her stomach and tasted bitter on her tongue.

She pushed the door open, stepping into the house and letting it click shut behind her, pausing at what she saw. Fenrys was splayed out on the floor again, blanket tugged to his chin, head falling to the side and mouth open as he snored. Samira almost thought she could see some drool. And Olio, for all his glowering and grumbling and fluffed fur, was stretched out on the floor, the very tips of his fur brushing the fingers of one of Fenrys’s hands.

Samira couldn’t help her quiet giggle, and both males were awake in an instant. Olio jumped up, shaking himself off and padding over to her, brushing against her legs in greeting and pretending he hadn’t just been _almost_ cuddling with the Fae. He was large enough that his head came to her knees, and he paused to sniff at the dirt staining her pants there. She laughed again, leaning down to scratch his head and chin before tipping her head up to look at Fenrys.

He was watching, those dark, dark eyes bright and alert and calculating. No doubt smelling everything, hearing everything, _knowing_ things that she probably didn’t really want him to know. This time, she was the one to break the silence between them. “How are you feeling?”

A strange look flittered across his face as he studied her – no, not her. Olio. He was staring at Olio, as if confused and frustrated and annoyed at his confusion. After a half-breath, though, the expression faded and he looked at her with a grin. “Fine, thank you.”

Oh, he ever was so polite, even if that grin showed off the tips of his fangs, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes. She swallowed a small breath, trying not to let the foolish children’s tales diminish her hospitality. She’d be damned if someone else’s fear made her a poor hostess. “I was going to make soup for lunch; nothing heavy just potatoes and grain, and some vegetables thrown in.” She finally straightened from petting Olio, and took a few more steps towards him. “I don’t have much meat, but I can add some, if you’d like.”

Those black eyes considered her for a moment, considered her words and her offer, and perhaps even all the ways he could respond. Then, his grin softened into a smile, and he shook his head slightly. “Potatoes and vegetables sound delightful, Lady Samira.”

“Oh,” she felt her cheeks heating in embarrassment again, the way they had earlier that morning when he’d called her his saviour, “I’m not a Lady.”

His smile shifted to something a little more roguish, a little more mischievous, and she saw then how truly _handsome_ he was in that otherworldly sense she had been warned about. Oh, she was in trouble, she thought, as that smile sent a shiver of something warm down her spine.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing and groaning as he had that morning, though it seemed… less. Perhaps the rumours of rapid Fae healing were true. He paused at the top, exhaling sharply – _taking a breath –_ and then flashed that roguish smile once more. “You’re more of a Lady than those I’ve seen in Court.”

She didn’t know what to say, not really. She wasn’t used to this, the game of flirtation, wasn’t good at it, and then – oh. _Oh._ His words registered, and she knew, _she knew who he was and where he was from and oh, oh –_

It was a moment where she couldn’t remember how to breathe. And then she could, and she managed, “You’re _Fenrys._ ”

He blinked at her, and she thought she saw laughter curling on the corners of his mouth, though he was polite enough – _he really is very polite_ – not to let that laughter escape into sound. “Indeed I am.”

How didn’t she figure it out sooner, how stupid could she really be? _The stupid human, inviting a monster into her home –_

But he hadn’t been a monster, hadn’t been anything other than soft-spoken and flirtatious and _polite._ And, she murmured to herself, he was better than the night demons, better than the nightmares that stalked around outside her home at night, if only for the fact he hadn’t tried to mindlessly kill her.

She took a breath, and then another, and Olio began winding around her legs in that slow, familiar way of his, and it grounded her again. “The warrior Fenrys, servant of Queen Maeve,” everyone, _everyone_ had heard of him and the rest of the group. Gavriel, the Lion, who was as much a gentleman in peace as he was ruthless in battle. Rowan Whitethorn, angry and savage, with the black tattoos dancing up his face. Lorcan Salvaterre, whose soul was black and unforgiving as the starless night. Vaughan, quiet as a shadow in the background, and just as deadly. Connall, dark and thoughtful and dangerously patient; the opposite of Fenrys.

 _Fenrys,_ she almost reached for something to steady herself. Bright and loud and impatient, known to be a terrible flirt, leaving a trail of lovers – human and Fae, male and female – wherever he went.

_Oh. Oh no._

Samira gripped her baskets of food tightly, as if it would be enough to shield her from him. She couldn’t think of what to say, of any way to diffuse the tension that had suddenly sprung up, filling the tiny house and setting Olio’s fur back on edge. But then Fenrys gave her that smile a third time, one full of bedroom whispers and intimate promises, and said, “I’m sure my lady queen won’t mind sharing.”

Samira blinked at him once, and then again, and then started laughing. It was a hysterical sort of thing, coming on the end of the adrenaline that made her blood feel sharp in her veins. She hugged the basket of food close, meeting his gaze. “I didn’t bring you into my home for _that_ , my lord.”

Oh, gods, he was technically a _lord._ A Fae lord. And she was a peasant human, carving out a life on the side of an unforgiving mountain. Oh, this was, this was –

 _My parents would kill me,_ and some small, rebellious part of her sparkled gleefully at that thought.

His chuckle was little more than a breath of air. “Doesn’t mean it won’t happen,” and when Samira narrowed her eyes at him, he laughed again, a little louder. And then winced when his wound pulled.

Samira frowned, putting her basket of food down and moving towards him, Olio staying at her side. She knelt adjacent him, leaning down to inspect the bandages, reaching to pull up his tunic and then freezing, hands hovering above his stomach. It had been one thing to work on his shirtless form when he was unconscious and dying, but it was something else entirely when he was awake and aware.

She twisted to look at him, and found him watching her with a sort of appreciative humour; such a male thing, such a _Fae_ thing, and she sucked her teeth lightly. “May I touch you, Lord Fenrys?”

It was his turn to scowl slightly. “I’m not a lord.”

“You are by birthright.”

His scowl deepened, and then stretched into a languid, dangerous sort of smirk. “Does that mean I’m within my rights to command you?”

Samira straightened, sitting back on her heels. “Not at all,” and Olio paced behind her, rubbing himself along her back with every pass. “We’re not at court, and you’re not _my_ lord.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “But I could be.”

She huffed, trying to decide if she wanted to laugh or be annoyed. Finally, she settled on both. “You can change your own bandages, then.” She moved to stand, and added, “And make your own lunch.”

That was a magnificent pout he managed, and the rest of her annoyance dissipated as she tried not to laugh. “I take it all back, my lady. I am nothing but a hungry, lowly male, injured and at your mercy.”

Samira studied him for a moment, biting her tongue to choke down more laughter. “Are all of you so dramatic?”

Fenrys seemed to think over her question, and then his answer, and she knelt back down to check his bandages and wound. “Rowan, definitely,” he said after a moment. “As dramatic as they come. Lorcan, too, though he’ll give you the kiss of Death if you ever dare say that to him. Gvariel, I would say, is the most level-headed.”

Samira paused, once more, hands above his stomach. “You never answered if I could touch you.”

The look Fenrys slid her was nothing at all innocent and chaste, and her cheeks heated again. “Any way you want, my lady.”

She pursed her lips and didn’t deign to answer. After a moment, he chuckled again, and continued his assessment of his – coworkers? What would he consider them, she wondered. Comrades?

“Vaughan – well,” he paused, “we don’t see much of Vaughan. Maeve often has him on assignments. And Connall,” Fenrys paused again, and his voice felt heavier in her ears when he continued speaking of his brother, “he’s never been one for dramatics.”

Samira wasn’t sure what she could say, wasn’t sure if there was a boundary there that she shouldn’t cross. And she didn’t like that, didn’t like that shuttered look in his eyes, the shadows swirling in that deep onyx. After a moment of thought and ensuring his wound wasn’t infected or worse, she asked, “So, you’re the only diva?”

He blinked at her and then laughed, despite that it pulled at his wound, despite that it made him hiss and wince and curse sharply under his breath. And when he looked at her again, those shadows were gone, and she saw only the sunlight reflecting in that dark depth.


	4. Songsteel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fae male bullshit, and all that

Lunch was full of more flirting, more laughing, and when Samira asked questions, hesitantly curious about the life Fenrys led, he answered them easily and willingly.

“How did you get hurt?” It was a healer’s concern that drove the question.

Fenrys heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Turns out Skinwalkers are very good at hunting in groups. And they are very good at holding a grudge.”

Samira winced in sympathy. “Why are you out here, anyway?”

“Ah,” Fenrys took two large mouthfuls of the soup before answering, “I’ve been sent on a retrieval mission.”

That seemed ever so exciting. “Retrieving what?”

“A sword and a ring.”

Samira slowly sucked the contents off her spoon. “Are they special?”

A scowl, dark and heavy and _terrifying_ , flashed across Fenrys’s face briefly. She wondered what she’d triggered, wondered if she should change subjects, but then the look disappeared and the scowl was nothing more than playful irritation. “Annoyingly so.”

A soft noise of intrigue came from Samira’s throat, and she was about to ask yet another question when Fenrys said, “Tell me about your cat.”

That was enough to startle her from her train of thought. “Olio?”

“Yes,” and when he smiled, it was soft and warm and welcoming, a gentle nudging to _trust him, tell him._

She studied the Fae, considering why he would care, why he would want to know. What even was there to know? Olio was a mountain cat, born and bred for the unforgiving life one led at such a high altitude. A kind, loving soul swathed in thirty pounds of pure muscle and thick fur.

The topic of conversation was stretched out in a patch of sunlight, his mottled grey-white-and-black fur seeming to glow. Samira twisted to look at him, and couldn’t help the small, affectionate tug on her lips when she saw him.

After a long moment, she asked, “What do you want to know?”

Fenrys shrugged, finishing the last half-spoonful of soup in the bowl and setting the utensils to the side, leaning a little closer. “How long has he been your companion?”

“Oh,” another small smile, this time at the memories she shared with her trust companion, “about a decade. He showed up just in time for my sixteenth birthday. My mama wasn’t the biggest fan, but that was probably because he burst through our door one night, drenched to the bone and dripping water all on the clean laundry she’d just folded.”

Fenrys snorted quiet laughter, giving the cat a look that was clearly reconsidering. Olio opened a pale blue eye for a moment, watching them, and then closed it and rolled so he was on his back, all four legs splayed in the air.

Samira laughed silently before continuing. “He was full grown when he arrived, and he seemed to like me the best. My sisters were _furious,_ but I didn’t mind sharing him, so it was okay.” She realised just how much information she was revealing, about her life, her childhood, her family, and found that she wasn’t concerned. If Fenrys were going to hurt her, she was sure he’d have already done it. “When they moved to the city, I stayed here, and Olio stayed with me.”

That seemed to distract Fenrys from the cat for a moment. “This was your family’s home?”

Samira nodded. “The house and homestead I grew up in.” He looked around it again, and she knew what he was thinking, imagining a family living in such a tiny space. When those dark eyes returned to hers, she grinned. “We were all very close.”

He laughed again, shaking his head slightly. “Why did you name him Olio?”

Samira shrugged. “He said he liked it.” Fenrys had eloquent eyebrows, and she felt heat burning her cheeks again. In a land saturated with magic, she was certain she had none, but she was just as certain that Olio understood everything she’d ever said to him, and that he had absolutely _loathed_ the first four names she’d tried on him. It was a conscious effort not to look down at her hands. “I just… asked him. If he liked it. And he just kind of, napped happily. It was the only name he ever answered to.”

There was a new glow in Fenrys’s eyes, something ancient and knowing, as they slid over Olio once more. “Indeed.”

Samira wasn’t sure what to make of that, so just kept talking. “He’s useful to have around. Fought off a bear once.” She reached down to roll her pants to just above her knee, showing the scars the bear had left as she’d tried to fight it off and run away, as it had tried to drag her away from her home with starvation’s desperation.

Fenrys’s eyes locked onto the marks, pale compared to the rest of her skin. The onyx darkened with an odd intensity as he looked over the marks, and then, more slowly, along the entire expanse of skin she’d bared to him.

Sucking her teeth sharply, Samira quickly tugged her pant leg back into place, and when Fenrys met her gaze, his eyes absolutely _sparkled._ And, oh, but she forgot to breathe. She forgot to be annoyed at his lack of couth, forgot to continue speaking of her beloved companion, forgot everything except that he was there, and he was beautiful, and he – for all they had spoken – he was _kind._

After a moment, she gasped slightly, lungs complaining about the lack of oxygen, and Fenrys gave her a slow, lazy grin, that one of bedroom whispers and intimate promises. She rolled her eyes at him. “Watch yourself, or I’ll set Olio on you.”

The salacious look simmered to something brighter and more innocent – pure, honest amusement. “I beg you not to, sweet lady. I’m not sure I’d walk away from that fight.”

Samira sniffed haughtily, trying not to laugh and not quite able to contain her smile. “Then I suggest you behave yourself, Lord Fenrys.”

Again, that scowl appeared briefly. It was almost startling, and she decided then she’d not call him that anymore. He didn’t say anything, though, other to encourage she keep talking about Olio.

So, she did. She told him about the comfort the large cat provided during the coldest, darkest nights. Told him of the determined way he’d plow through the snow in the winter when it was feet deep and she needed to get around outside. Told him of the conversations they’d have, Samira babbling about anything that came to mind and Olio tracking her with those blue eyes, mrrowing whenever she stopped speaking for long moments. The way he’d saved them during the hardest winter, somehow finding small birds and rodents, the only food they’d had except for hard bread and fruit preserves.

“And he protects me from the night demons when I go to town.”

The muscles around Fenrys’s eyes tightened slightly. “How so?”

“Well,” there was a sudden tension building between them, an odd pressure in her stomach that made her answer very carefully, “it’s a three-days walk. He makes sure we stay alive when we camp at night.”

Those onyx eyes seemed to simmer with a sort of disapproval and annoyance, and she blinked, doing a double-take, ensuring she wasn’t simply hallucinating. No, he was _upset_ about her ventures across the mountain to town. Olio, sensing the shift in emotions, stood from his sun-patch and wandered over to them, rubbing across Samira and placing himself intentionally between her and the Fae.

Samira swallowed slightly, wary, unsure what to expect, focusing very intently on _not_ being worried or scared or anxious. She waited for Fenrys to do something, offer some sort of explanation, but he only asked, “When do you go next?”

It took her a moment to realise he wasn’t acting on whatever had upset him. He wasn’t going to, going to –

Oh, gods, she’d expected some sort of outburst, violent words or violent actions, and it was a moment of scrambling to gather her thoughts and changes expectations when that didn’t happen. A moment of reproach and shame that she thought so lowly of him.

“After you leave.”

Fenrys was shaking his head before she finished speaking. “No. I’ll come.”

Samira’s lips pursed slightly. “You need to heal; and, apparently, to find the sword and the ring.”

“That can wait.”

She blinked at him, curious and confused and slightly offended at his sudden change from flirtatious to domineering. “I’m not yours to take care of.” The words were soft and smooth like songsteel, and her fingers tangled in Olio’s fur for a grounding touch. “I’m not your responsibility in any sense, and I’m not sure I want you to come if this is how you act at any small disagreement.”

As if her words had physically struck him, he seemed to shrink, leaning back into the pallet she’d created for him and exhaling quietly. “You’re right.”

She waited for something else, perhaps an apology or an explanation, but nothing came. After a moment, she frowned slightly and moved to stand. Lunch, it appeared, was over.

Wordlessly, she gathered their bowls and placed them in the sink, sliding out of her house slippers and lacing up her boots. There was work still to be done, and the sun wouldn’t be up for longer than a few more hours.

Olio moved with her, but she paused in the doorway. “Stay here and let me know if he needs anything.” She knew Fenrys heard her quiet request to the cat, and she was almost hoping he’d respond. He didn’t, though, and she sighed, feeling like maybe something had cracked between them and wondering why she cared, and wondering how she’d become so attached in such a short time.

Perhaps she just needed more human – and Fae, she supposed – contact. She was so desperate for companionship with anyone else, she had damn near imprinted on Fenrys. Samira scoffed at herself internally, and stepped outside. She was three steps away when she turned around, returning to the doorway.

“Can I get you anything else before I leave?”

Fenrys didn’t move, didn’t look at her, and didn’t answer. With a sigh, and a flash of anger that she tamped down, she turned away. She had retaken those three steps when she heard him say, “Thank you for lunch, Samira.”

That eased some of the odd, tight knot in her stomach, and she answered, knowing he could hear, “You’re welcome, Fenrys.”

The first time she’d said _just_ his name, and it shivered off her tongue, a little more intimate, a little heavier, a little deeper.

Oh, she was in _so much trouble._


	5. Sparkling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to stay mad at him, even if he's an idiot.

Fenrys knew he’d messed up. Despite her cordial attitude, despite the final question before she’d left, he _knew._ And he kicked himself for it whilst continuing to bristle and seethe at just the _idea_ that she trekked three days to town and three days back with no protection from the monsters except her cat and her tent.

 _Protect, cherish, serve,_ that’s what Fae males were meant to do, that’s what _he_ was meant to do. And he hadn’t, not really, not ever, and it was not as if he had a truly strong connection to this human, but _damn_ if she didn’t rile his instincts with that. Walking across a mountain! Alone! She was crazy, and incredibly brave.

 _And she hadn’t gotten angry, not really – hadn’t gotten mean, or cruel, or poisonous._ Just politely and eloquently shut him down and excused herself to work. She’d even cleaned up his lunch utensils – _fuck._ He really was being a horrible guest.

Back in his sun-patch, Olio watched him with those ice blue eyes. Fenrys sighed quietly, meeting the cat’s gaze. “I see why you chose to stay with her.” Because, for all her quiet embarrassment – and, _gods,_ but he loved how easy it was to get that heat in her cheeks – and gentleness, she was fierce and wild.

 _Wild and beautiful,_ his favourite kind of creature.

Olio just flicked the tip of his tail, stretching his legs out so he took up as much space on the floor as possible. Fenrys continued studying the cat. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s right and you do understand everything.”

Olio twitched an ear and closed his eyes, but Fenrys could have sworn he scented amusement coming from the creature.

When it became clear Olio was effectively ignoring him, he sighed again, standing up and stretching. He’d be almost entirely healed by tomorrow, though the exhaustion that came specially with near-burn-outs and injuries would keep him slow for a few more days. Keep him slow, and keep him _here._

If Samira didn’t kick him out.

He winced slightly, imagining how much better that conversation could have gone and wondering if she’d accept his apology. There would be no way to find out until she returned, though, unless he was going to chase her down. His lips curled slightly at that thought – he still had _some_ dignity.

Sure that she was going to be gone until dusk, and noting all the household chores left half-finished – the dishes beginning to accumulate in the sink, the pile of laundry with only a few shirts folded, the fruits and vegetables left strewn across her counters – he got to work. Maybe, even if she didn’t accept his apology, if he proved himself useful, she’d let him stay.

* * *

When Samira finally returned to her small house, her annoyance had completely burned out, leaving nothing but soft curiosity in its wake. Why had he responded like that? Why did he care? What would he say to her now?

She was covered in dirt and woodchips and sticky with a light sheen of drying sweat. Her curls had started coming loose from the headband and stuck to her forehead. She was certain she stank, and couldn’t wait to bathe. There was a dump-bucket-shower she had fashioned soon after her family had moved away, good for nothing more than dousing her with water and getting off the worst of the dirt she had a tendency to accumulate throughout the day.

With the season changing and sun setting, it would set her shivering, but the bath inside would be hot, and she didn’t want to sit in water with bark and grass floating around her. Mind made up, she dropped the large piece of cloth she was dragging behind her, filled with as much of the chopped wood as she could manage, beside the front door and wandered around to the side of the house where the shower was.

Grabbing a clean towel off the clothes line and stripping quickly, she took a sharp, bracing breath, and yanked on the rope. The large bucket, having filled with rain and melted snow, tipped and sent the near-freezing water cascading over her naked body. It was so cold she forgot how to breathe for a moment, and then gasped, scrubbing as much of the dirt away as she could before wrapping in the towel. Shivering, she grabbed her dirty clothes and scrambled down the stoned path to her front door.

It opened just as she leaned to grab the handle, and she stumbled inside –

And right into Fenrys. He caught her easily, and she couldn’t help the small gasp at his warmth. _Oh, he was so, so warm._ The start of that teasing smirk faded to a concerned frown as he took in her sopping, shivering state; took in the large towel and clothes in her hand and bare feet. The frown deepened as he focused on _that_ for a moment – _he couldn’t truly be upset about bare feet, could he? –_ before returning his gaze to her face.

“Why are you wet?”

He hadn’t yet let her go, and she, for purely selfish reasons, wasn’t inclined to encourage him to. “I took a shower.”

The frown deepened even more and she felt his fingers flex against her where they held her. “Outside?”

A small, patiently amused smile quirked her lips up. “Yes. I have a dump-shower on the side of the house.”

He wasn’t nearly as amused as she was. “You’re freezing.”

“I am.” There was no way to deny it. “I was going to take a hot bath in here.”

That frown still hadn’t gone away, though he relaxed slightly. “Why did you shower outside?” And then he added, “You shouldn’t be without shoes. You could get hurt.”

Ah, so _that’s_ why he was upset about her feet. She chose to ignore it for now. “I was covered in dirt. I wanted to get it off before I take a bath.”

He still didn’t seem to entirely understand her logic, but he finally moved, reaching around her to close the door. Olio, she noted, was curled up by the fire and hadn’t moved a bit, not even to twitch an ear her way.

And then she paused. She hadn’t lit the fire. And then other things began to hit her, like the neatly ordered fruits and vegetables on her counter, and the clean dishes hung up and drying, and the laundry folded and stacked carefully on the edge of her work table.

“You cleaned the house.” Surprise and delight coloured her words.

Fenrys blinked, as if snapped from his – she decided _overprotective_ was the word – train of thought, looking around, too. “Just the dishes and laundry.”

He still hadn’t let her go, and her shivering was beginning to cease. He radiated warmth like the hottest of furnaces, and she _loved_ it. Allowing herself no longer than half a breath to finish basking in his warmth, she pulled away gently, turning so she faced him. Those dark eyes watched her with an intensity that sent her skin tingling. She ignored it and smiled hesitantly – hopefully. She didn’t want to argue again. “Thank you.”

He seemed to soften, just slightly, just around the very edges of his crackling aura, and he returned her small, hesitant smile. “You’re welcome.” It looked odd on his face, like he didn’t do it often – like he wasn’t used to smiling honestly and openly and warmly, wasn’t used to smiling anyway other than sharp and vicious and ugly.

And, oh, but he was beautiful with that smile.

She realised she was staring when he quirked a brow, and quickly stepped back, trying to ignore the heat in her cheeks. “I’m going to take my bath.”

From the corner of her eyes, she saw Fenrys grin, laughter sparkling quietly in his eyes. “Am I invited to join?”

Samira sucked her teeth at him. “Not at all.” And she effectively flounced off, up the stairs to the small bathroom and bedroom, filling the tub and sinking into it, hissing with pleasure as the heat drove the lingering cold from her bones.

A few moments later, she heard a questioning, grumbling mrrow, and Olio appeared, pushing the door wide open and circling the tub a few times before jumping onto the bathroom counter and settling down to keep guard. Samira laughed. “You could’ve at least closed the door behind you, my love.”

She wasn’t truly concerned about it, though. As roguish and rakish as Fenrys may be, as overprotective and bossy as he could be, she knew, somewhere in the very depths of her mind, that he would never violate her in any such way.

Olio just grumbled out another mrrow, tail flicking, and began cleaning himself. Samira laughed again and leaned back, relaxing into the heat and remembering what it felt like when the heat came from Fenrys and not water.


	6. Gentle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a very long day

Fenrys busied himself with cleaning and sharpening his weapons while she was in the bath, trying to pretend that her quiet noises in the bath weren’t lighting his blood on fire, that the open door didn’t fill his head with thoughts that were _very_ impolite.

He had the sneaking suspicion the cat had done it, opened the door and left it so, and done it on purpose. Devious, evil thing.

He kept an ear on them, smiling when she scolded the cat. Gentleheart, she was. Wildheart. Beautiful, truly and deeply and wholly, so much so he was aching in his bones to touch her again.

Not even to show her the pleasure he could offer, but just to _touch_ ; just to feel her warmth, breathe in her natural scent, commit the thrum of her heart to memory. A touch, just to know one of kindness, one of purity, of _goodness._

Splashing water and an unamused yowl followed by laughter alerted him that the bath was done. He finished sharpening the blade in his hand, wiping it down and sheathing it, tracking the footsteps that pattered around until she appeared in the upstairs hallway and began descending the stairs.

Her hair, heavy with wetness, hung in loose coils down her back, dark eyes gleaming and bright from the rejuvenating properties of a good bath. He was sure she was exhausted, though, having stayed up the entire night before to take care of him, and working all day today.

She was on the last step when she called to him, “What would you like for dinner?” They’d finished the soup during lunch.

He shrugged, trying not to blatantly admire the way her simple linen house-dress outlined all her soft, luscious curves. Her soap, sweet and bright, wafted from her, calling to him. Those primal instincts flared, and he shoved them down. _Not this time._ She wasn’t a conquest or a simple one-night bedmate.

It took him a moment to come up with an answer. “Whatever you feel like making.”

Already in the kitchen, Samira flashed him a quick smile over her shoulder. “You’re an easy guest.”

He approached, grinning at her. “I told you, my lady, I’m entirely at your mercy.”

She snickered and held out a chopping knife to him. “Well, then, help me with dinner and I’ll see how merciful I’m feeling.” He took it, automatically calculating the strength of the blade, the balance of it, the usefulness of it in a fight. Samira slid him a cutting board stacked with vegetables. “Chop those into smallish pieces, please. All about the same size.”

He could do that easily enough, and got to work while she pulled out a ceramic container and dumped a few handfuls of pasta into boiling water before grabbing dried meat from another ceramic container. It would be chewy, but boiling it with the pasta would soften it.

A good, hearty meal, like lunch, and his stomach growled loudly in appreciation. Samira laughed as she worked, looking over at him. “If you’re going to stay much longer, you may need to contribute to the food gathering.” Her little garden certainly wouldn’t support his appetite for long.

Fenrys grinned back at her. “Is that an invitation to remain?”

Samira pursed her lips slightly. “Well, I’m not going to kick you out.”

He chuckled. “I’ll go hunting tomorrow.”

Her frown was swift and deep. “No. Not while you’re injured.”

He was tempted to pull up his tunic and show the healed skin, with only a little bit of that pink newness, but had the sense it would fluster her beyond what was smart whilst cooking. Instead, he conceded with a small tip of his head. “The day after.”

Samira gave him another disapproving look, but didn’t argue. “When do you need to return to your queen?”

The thought of that killed any good mood in him, and he scowled at the nearly-chopped vegetables. “Whenever she says.”

Samira’s head tipped to the side slightly – and he stared, and stared, and started laughing. Deep, loud, belly laughs that caused him to put the knife down and grip the counter for stabilisation. A puzzled, curious look joined the cocked head, it took him a moment to catch his breath.

“Did you learn that from Olio?”

She blinked at him, and he scented her confusion. “Learn what?”

He mimicked what she’d just done, and she stared at him, before bowing to hide her face and laughing into the pot of pasta and meat. “I didn’t even know I did that.” Her laughter was beautiful, like her, golden and bubbling and sweet against his ragged soul.

Fenrys was reaching for her before he realised, fingertips brushing against her cheek. “Why do you hide your face so much?”

Samira looked up at him, mouth frozen in a small ‘o,’ as if his question startled her. He lowered his hand, and she swallowed, shrugging. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.”

She was so close, _so close,_ he could taste her soap and natural scent, could feel her heat, could hear the increasing speed of her heart. He could sense so much of _her,_ and he wanted more, wanted to know it _all._

She stood entirely still, but there was no fear in her, and she didn’t retreat when he reached for her again. Beneath his calloused fingertips, her skin was soft and warm, and when he smiled, it was a small one that curled at the corners of his eyes. “You should let the world see how beautiful you are.”

She stared at him, barely breathing, his fingers hardly more than a phantom touch, and then Olio brushed against the backs of her legs, and she started, turning away from him and bending down to pet her companion. He hadn’t ever wanted to strangle an animal as much as he did, then, but when Samira straightened, her smile was big and bright, and she murmured, “Thank you.”

He just returned the smile and tilted his head in a small nod, wondering how she’d react if she knew that was the first time he’d laughed – truly _laughed_ in nearly a century.

* * *

Samira was exhausted. She’d been awake for nearly forty hours, working and saving a life, and she just wanted to _sleep._ Because of that, dinner was a quiet affair. They splayed on the cushions and furs she had near the fire, eating carefully and happily.

She only managed halfway through her plate before she felt her body shutting down. She set the plate aside, swaying where she sat, eyeing the stairs and doubting her ability to get up them to her bed.

Movement to her side startled her back to some awareness, and she remembered Fenrys beside her. He was watching with those beautiful, dark eyes, a small crease between his eyebrows. She tried to smile. “I think I need to sleep.” He nodded, though he frowned slightly at the food still left on her plate. She followed his gaze and winced at the thought of eating anything more. “Give it Olio. He’ll love it all.”

On cue, the cat appeared from behind a cushion, settling down and lapping at the sauce on her plate. Fenrys’s frown shifted to an almost-smile as he watched before looking back to her. “Do you need help?”

Samira considered for a long moment – too long. She had barely started to nod when Fenrys stood and gently pulled her from the ground. Almost expecting him to throw her over his shoulder, she was surprised when he simply used himself as a brace guiding her up the stairs and to her room.

Oh, he was so warm and so solid, pure, powerful muscle and magic. Like when she’d first found him, it tingled on her fingertips when she grabbed him for balance. Another of those small, hesitant smiles tugged on his lips as he carefully sat her on her bed. She managed to burrow beneath the blankets and curl up. Fenrys remained in the doorway, and she almost invited him to join her, if only for the warmth he offered.

She wasn’t _that_ far gone, though, and managed to control herself.

“Can I help with anything else?” The question was quiet and stilted, as if he wasn’t used to asking it, wasn’t used to meaning it.

She tried another smile, and felt like her cheeks weren’t working. “Tomorrow, Fenrys.”

So much promise in two small words. He lingered for a moment more, watching as she sank into her mattress and sleep. That small smile remained, a curious feeling, new and light and lovely.

_Tomorrow._

He turned and padded down the stairs silently, settling into his own pallet of blankets, furs, and pillows, watching the fire until it burned itself to embers.

He’d never heard a promise like that, never known one – so good, so innocently thoughtless – a curious feeling, indeed.


	7. A Male's Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenrys and Samira have a conversation

Samira woke well past sunrise and jerked upright. She had too much to do to sleep her way through the morning! Scrambling out of bed, she barely noticed how cold the floor was or the fresh dusting of snowfall out the window.

She was halfway down the stairs when she realised Fenrys was up and moving around; realised her entire kitchen was clean and everything put away orderly, except for the pot of porridge bubbling merrily on the stove. She froze where she was, turning on the stairs to look around.

The clothes from her clothing line outside had been gathered and folded, a few laid by the freshly stoked fire to dry them out. The floor looked freshly swept, and all the supplies she’d need for canning and preserving were set out deliberately and methodically on her work table. Beside the door, a basket was full of freshly picked vegetables, and all the wood she’d cut and gathered the day before was stacked along the walls on either side of her fireplace.

Except. She looked around again, to make sure. Except there was no Fenrys there, no glittering golden hair and deep, sparkling eyes to greet her.

Samira finished her descent, wandering to the stove and inhaling deeply. He’d even added all the spices she usually used, and a small pot of honey was placed neatly on the counter beside the bowl and spoon he’d left out for her. The smile that curled on her lips was helpless and wonderful. She hadn’t been taken of in such a way in _so long._

Flicking off the stove and placing a lid on the pot to keep it hot, she pulled an old, woolen poncho over her head and slipped into her work boots. Fenrys couldn’t be too far, and she wasn’t entirely in the mood to eat breakfast alone. Not after he’d done so much work just so she could have a morning to sleep in.

Olio leapt from the cushion on which he’d been napping, brushing past her out the door, tail high as he led the way. She laughed softly, following him down the stone path to her garden.

There he was, hair tied back with a strip of leather, in only trousers and a short-sleeved tunic that allowed her a moment or two to shamelessly admire the rippling muscles of his arms as he worked. And then he looked up, and her cheeks flamed even as she raised a hand in greeting and finished her approach.

Olio sat near the edge of the garden, and if he’d been human, she was sure he’d have been laughing at her. Fenrys straightened, offering a small smile – a little larger than the day before, though, as if he was getting used to it, as if he’d been practicing. That was enough to warm her from the core and bring back that helpless smile.

“Goodmorning, Fenrys.”

He wiped his hands on his trousers and closed the distance between them. “Goodmorning, Samira.” She decided then she loved how he said her name, and never wanted him to call her anything else.

Silence lingered as she rolled words around in her head, unsure of how to start, how to begin expressing what his held meant. The best she managed was, “Thank you for helping.”

And his smile widened slightly. “You needed to sleep.”

She shrugged in agreement, not quite able to meet those dark, intense eyes. “It’s been a while since I could enjoy a morning in bed,” and only realised the double meaning when mischief flashed in the onyx, when his smile shifted to something a little more rakish. Her cheeks flamed again. “ _Not_ like that.” Though, it had been a while since that, too.

Fenrys chuckled, low and amused, and leaned a little closer. She remembered his fingers brushing her cheek the night before, the deep, pure honesty in his gaze, the quiet strength to his words. _You should let the world see how beautiful you are._

Not _you’re beautiful_ – she knew that she was, and such a statement would have no effect – but a gentle reminder that she didn’t have to hide her beauty, didn’t have to make herself smaller and duller for the rest of the world. And _that,_ that sank into her very soul and had somehow found a permanent home there.

She swallowed a small breath and remembered why she’d sought him out. “Have you already eaten?”

He shook his head, leaning back slightly. “I was waiting for you.”

She grinned. “And I for you.”

He chuckled again, stepping around the small fence she had around her garden, pausing by her to offer his arm. She gave him an amused quirk of an eyebrow, and he returned her grin. “Allow me, my lady.”

She rocked back on her heels, willing and eager to play along with this game. “On one condition.” He arched a brow, and she lifted her chin slightly, adopting the haughty tone and look her older sister so enjoyed using when they were younger. “You may only call me Samira.”

Curiosity mingled with the laughter in his grin, but he dipped his head in acquiesce. Happy, she looped her arm through his, letting him guide her back to the house and remembering, through nothing more than snippets and sensations, his gentle touch the night before as he’d helped her to her room.

He was truly so gentle, for a creature with such a vicious, feral life. She wondered what he may have been if he’d been allowed kindness rather than the brutality he’d implied when answering her endless questions the day before. _So much brutality, so many scars that weren’t on his skin,_ and Samira absently ran her thumb along a small ridge of scar tissue that adorned his forearm.

He looked down at her as he opened the door, waiting long enough for Olio to saunter in before them. “What are you thinking about?”

It startled her, and she scrambled to collect her thoughts and words, spitting out the first thing that came to mind. “Why were you mad yesterday?”

Fenrys shut the door behind them, releasing her arm with a soft squeeze of her fingers and frowning slightly. Not in any sort of vexation, she realised, but in thought. He was, it seemed, as unused to honesty as he was kindness.

 _How sad,_ her heart ached, _what a sad, cold, dark life to live._

He didn’t answer until he’d served them each a bowl and they were once more settled comfortably on her pile of furs near the fire. She pulled off the poncho, not wanting to risk spilling anything on it, and watched him as he stirred his porridge slowly.

She knew how to be patient.

After nearly a minute, his eyes returned to the present and he met her gaze, movement in his bowl stilling. “I wasn’t _mad_ ,” he began slowly, stilted again, stumbling over words – stumbling over the _honesty_. “I was _frustrated_.” He paused, and Samira remained silent, watching him openly and curiously. A muscle in his cheek ticked as he asked, “What do you know about us?” He gestured himself.

Samira’s brow furrowed. “Fae?”

He nodded. “Fae males.”

“Oh.” She hesitated. She didn’t really want to tell him what she’d been taught; most of it truly was offensive. Thinking for a moment, she said, “That you’re not human and one can’t expect you to act as such.”

Despite the seriousness lining him, a small smile quirked the edges of his lips up. “Indeed.” He began stirring the porridge again as he started to explain, “It’s part of our instincts, as males, to be a provider in every sense of the word. Provide our mates or lovers with food, with shelter, with whatever their heart desires.” Those dark eyes focused intently on her. “Provide protection.”

A soft noise of understanding vibrated in her throat. She was beginning to understand. “And I’m essentially a sitting target when I go to town.” It also made sense why he’d disapproved of her bare feet the night before.

His cheek ticked again as he acknowledged her casual admission. “Yes.” Oh, that word was tense and brittle, and she could sense that frustration rising again.

So, she asked, trying for humour, “Does it help if I tell you I’ve been doing this since my family moved away five years ago? And nothing has happened?”

He scowled – not at her, but at the thought. “It does not.”

He was working himself into another spiral, and it was almost amusing and endearing.

Samira reached a hand out to him, palm up, and after a moment of consideration, he curled his fingers around hers. “I appreciate your concern, Fenrys,” her voice was soft and solid, “but I am not yours to protect.” His nostrils flared, and she squeezed his fingers, continuing. “You are kind to worry, and to want to help me,” she got the sense now was not the time to mention how terrifying it could be, those nights spent in the tent, “but that is not your role in my life.”

He looked away from her, staring down at his bowl. “It could be.” She blinked, surprised, and he returned his gaze to hers. Those onyx eyes, oh, they _burned,_ so deeply, so intensely. “For as long as I’m here, it could be.”

There was something else in those words, another promise, another offer, another question, and Samira pretended she didn’t hear it. It took a moment to realise she wasn’t breathing, and she sucked in a deep breath, squeezing his hand and offering a smile, trying to cut through the odd tension that rippled between them. “You already provide for a fem, Fenrys.” The thought of the queen, _his_ queen, sent a shiver of unpleasantness down her spine.

His lips pulled back in a snarl that showed all his sharp teeth, and she leaned back in surprise, but didn’t let go of his hand. “I _service_ her.” The words were spat, ugly and hateful, and Samira knew not to ask. He inhaled deeply, calming the proverbial fur that had begun bristling. “I don’t provide for her.”

Samira’s next smile was a little sad, and a little tired. She’d never played this game before, and didn’t know how it ended – but she knew he couldn’t stay, and reminded him, “You’ll be leaving soon.”

“So, while I’m here,” neither of them could tell if he was pleading or not, “just while I’m with you. Let me.” She was almost surprise the _please_ was left unspoken, as loudly and clearly as she heard it.

Olio lifted his head from where he lounged by the fire, watching them intently.

Samira couldn’t look away from those onyx eyes, darker than her own, she realised, even shining in the firelight. Open, honest, _vulnerable._ How often had he shown himself like this? How often had he been mocked for it? Hurt for it?

 _Unused to honesty, unused to kindness,_ and Samira’s breath caught as heat prickled behind her eyes. If she could give him nothing else, she could give him this. A bastion of warmth against Death, a moment of kindness when he’d known nothing else.

“Okay,” she murmured, and he seemed to melt with relief. She smiled again, not trusting the tears not to fall. “While you’re with me.”

He squeezed her fingers a final time before releasing them and taking a bite of porridge.

He truly had melted, she noticed. The tension from his form, the hard lines from his face, and what was left behind was a male who was brilliant and lovely and terrifying in his capacity to give.

She took a bite, too, their silence only lasting a few moments as she asked, “Does this mean I get to sleep in every day that you’re here?”

And when he smiled – _oh, but it was bright and wondrous and so very beautiful_. Bigger, fuller than those small, hesitant ones he’d been trying. Like a gift he was giving her, a secret he was sharing that no one else knew. Even if that wasn’t the case, she tucked that smile into her heart and soul as if it were.


	8. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenrys realises there's so much more to the world than he ever thought

The day passed with sunshine weaving in and out of clouds and easy conversation with Samira. She was endless with her questions about him and his life, and he found himself unable to do anything but indulge her. He realised soon that she enjoyed his interpretations of the rest of cadre the best, and he simply launched into stories and stories of their misadventures throughout the years.

Lorcan’s swirling Death whenever he was minorly inconvenienced – Rowan’s brooding and pouting and grumbling that always seemed to culminate in sharp retorts and snarls – Gavriel’s resigned and exasperated sighs and suggestions that _they just try to act like grown males_ – Vaughn’s recalcitrance and curmudgeonly behaviour – Connall’s quiet wit and brutal honesty.

Samira paused her work to study him for a second. “Why are you all so angry?”

Fenrys paused, too. He’d never thought of it like that, never seen them as anything other than misfits managing to make everything work. After a moment, he offered a small, sad curl of his lips. “This world is not in the habit of making its creatures kind.”

“Oh,” Samira resumed her movements, and Fenrys did, too, waiting for her to continue. Because he knew she would, and he wanted so desperately to know what she had to say. She had such good things to say, a soul-deep intelligence that came out in her words and laughter. “I think it can be. I think that it’s not the world, not the magic, not the gods – but the creatures in it who cause the damage.” She twisted to give him a quick smile over her shoulder. “I think you can be truly kind when you want to be.”

He laughed quietly. “And that’s a secret you must take to the grave, sweetling.” He winced as soon as the epithet left his mouth.

Samira paused again, head cocking, another smile tugging on her lips. “I like that.” Her eyes were twinkling with laughter as she glanced at him over her shoulder. “How many other fems have you called that?”

Fenrys relaxed and returned the smile. “Not just fems.”

An amused noise vibrated in the back of Samira’s throat. “Oh, beg your pardon. How many other sentients?”

Fenrys took a moment before answering to simply enjoy what thrummed between them, alive and warm and golden. “Oh, a few.”

Samira’s laughter was quiet and delighted at his willingness to play along with her game of flirtation. Fenrys bit back his own chuckle; she should’ve known he would play. If there was anything his reputation did for him, it was find him plenty of lovers.

Samira just shook her head at him. “Incorrigible.”

“And incredibly handsome.”

She just responded with another hum, but he didn’t miss the way her eyes flickered to him, moving along his hair gleaming in the sun, down his face, and lingering on his bare arms. She bit the tip of her tongue as she stared, abruptly returning her attention to her task. Something in him that was purely male fluffed its feathers and wanted to strut at her appraisal, but Fenrys only grinned and waited for her next question.

* * *

They ate lunch in the garden, a medley of cut up vegetables and fruits that Fenrys simply sliced as they picked them. It was a meal of laughter – _so much laughter._ He couldn’t remember a time when he’d laughed so much, so openly, to truly. When it had been because he wanted to, not because it was part of the façade he kept up.

Couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t had to be aware of everything, _everything_ he did and said and thought. _Couldn’t remember the last time he had simply existed, in a space of warmth and goodness._

And he liked watching Samira laugh. Her head would tip back, eyes closing, body shaking with her laughter. It rang golden in his ears, and danced like bubbles through the space between them. Her beautiful brown skin gleamed in the light, dark eyes sparkling with happiness and contentment.

 _Contentment._ He couldn’t think of a time he had seen that, either. Everyone he knew was broken and angry and brutal, barely scraping through survival. Even Maeve was never content, greed and lust simmering with a dark ugliness beneath her beauty.

But Samira – this simple, lovely human. She _lived_ , fully and gracefully, happy in her small home on the unforgiving mountainside. Though, Fenrys suspected, if she asked the mountain, it would gentle itself for her.

She claimed she didn’t have any magic, and he almost believed her, except – _except for her relationship with the world around her._ The conversations she’d have with her plants and with Olio; the way they would respond to her presence and touch. His own magic glimmered at it, as if reaching to answer –

Answer what, he wondered. He couldn’t sense any magic in her, as she said. But he was sure he _saw_ it, just a little bit.

“Fenrys?” Samira was watching him curiously. “What’re you thinking of to look so confused?”

He blinked and then grinned. “Magic.”

“What about it?” She popped a piece of fruit in her mouth, chewing as she continued to watch him.

He shrugged. “Different ways in which it can manifest.”

Her eyebrows quirked and she gave him a bemused look. “M-hm. I don’t have any, no matter how hard you think about it.”

The chuckle felt smooth and wonderful as it bubbled from him. “Perhaps there’s magic in ways us Fae haven’t considered.” That caught her interest, and she leaned a little closer. He did, too. “What if there’s an undetectable magic that anyone can have?”

A dark eyebrow arched. “And what would this magic be?”

He reached out a hand to touch her, and then paused, letting it linger in the air between them. Her eyes were beautiful in the sunlight as they held his gaze steadily, patiently, and he murmured, “Kindness.”

An odd look flittered across her face, an echo of that sad, tired smile she’d given him that morning. “It’s hardly a magic, Fenrys. It’s simply a philosophy to live.” Her fingers pressed against his gently.

He curled his hand around hers and didn’t say anything else.

* * *

The first time he ever heard the music of the Little Folk was that night, sitting by the fire with Samira. She was patiently teaching him the art of mending and stitching, and he was utterly and undeniably horrible. There was a lot of laughing, and a many pricked fingers, and he froze when his sensitive ears picked up the unfamiliar sound.

Samira paused, too. “Fenrys?”

He didn’t answer her, listening harder. It was such an odd, foreign sound. Low and mournful, only to be joined by a second, higher, softer harmony. It was music not for humans and not for Fae – music of a magic he didn’t know or understand, and he almost stopped breathing as he realised it was getting louder. They were getting closer.

He knew the moment Samira heard it. A large smile bloomed on her face, and she carefully set aside the stitching, putting a finger against her lips. _Stay silent._

He could do that. Even Olio seemed to pull into himself; even the fire seemed to shrink and fade. Everything in the small house was silent and still, listening to the music, accepting the touch of the magic. Fenrys could feel it sinking into him, into his bones, into his very soul.

A music not for humans and not for Fae, but it moved closer, and closer, until he could hear the faintest of footfalls around the garden.

Samira was reclined against the sofa across from him, eyes closed, smile absent and lovely, as if she’d simply given herself to the music. What a terrifying thought, to give into the unknown so easily. But, watching her, Fenrys decided that maybe, just in this moment, it didn’t need to be terrifying.

So, he closed his eyes and tipped his head back and breathed out, long and low and deep, and when he next inhaled, he brought the magic into him.

The stars exploded behind his eyes. The moon was close enough to touch. Colours danced along the edges of his vision. Warmth curled around his toes and his heart. He was swaying – the Universe called, and he danced for her.

Starshine danced up his arms, shadows swirled around his head – but the safe shadows, the ones from between the stars, the ones from his memories of playing in the dark and hiding under covers. He was, he was, _infinite and endless and untouchable –_

_Powerful –_

_Fearless –_

_Safe, safe, safe –_

Fenrys gasped suddenly, eyes snapping open, body jerking up, and he found Samira and Olio watching him. Samira leaned towards him, small smile still on her face, though he could see she was entirely aware. “Are you with us, Fenrys?”

Fenrys nodded, sucking in deep breaths, skin tingling like it’d just been scrubbed raw. Samira’s smile widened slightly and she gently laid her hand on his knee. “How are you?”

He exhaled sharply, grabbing her hands in his own trembling ones. “What was that?”

Fondness filtered through her smile, and wonderment, and she turned her head slightly to look in the direction of her garden. “A gift.”

Fenrys followed her gaze, trying to relive what had just occurred and not quite succeeding, confused and terrified and delighted. Nothing, _nothing_ he had ever experienced or consumed had brought him to such a high, brought him such _magic,_ and he squeezed Samira’s hand gently.

A gift indeed.


	9. Wondrous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Samira asks a small favour

“Dance with me, Fenrys.”

Fenrys looked up from where he was strapping into his gear, the lightest leathers and armour he’d brought, with what may or may not have been an excessive number of weapons. His hunting kit.

Today was the day he could go hunting, as promised by Samira, though she hadn’t looked entirely thrilled at the prospect, proclaiming he was still recovering from his injury. Feeling wicked and mischievous, Fenrys had simply pulled up his tunic to reveal smooth, healthy skin – and rippling muscles and old scars.

Samira just stuttered, heat flushing her cheeks, eyes darting from his exposed stomach to the floor and back again, as if she couldn’t decide where to look. He’d grinned and said, “I’m all healed, thanks to you.”

“Yes,” the word had sounded nearly strangled in her flustered state, “I can see that.”

He’d snickered and lowered his shirt, and she’d darted outside to her garden to begin today’s upkeep.

And now she was calling to him from the garden, leaning over the fence slightly and grinning widely at him. He blinked at her. “What?”

Samira laughed quietly, holding out a hand to him. “Dance with me.”

“Right now?” He finished strapping down his favourite dagger.

“Yes. Right now.”

“There’s no music,” but he was already moving towards her, already had the beginnings of a smile on his face.

Samira’s hand fit easily into his own as he cupped it, and she grinned up at him, triumphant. “I’ll make the music.”

“Well,” he leaned a little closer, and then a little more, until they shared the same breath, “how can I say no to that?”

Her breathing stalled, eyes flickering down to his lips, fingers flexing against his own. He stayed still, letting her figure it out, letting her decide. _The other always touched first,_ that was his rule. Whomever his partner was, they always initiated.

Samira gasped quietly, leaning back and tugging on his hand. “Incorrigible. Absolutely incorrigible.”

Fenrys laughed quietly, happily, and let her lead him to where she wanted. Right there, in the middle of the garden. Between the plants and the fruit trees. Olio basking in the sun on the warm stones that paved the path between garden and house.

She lined them up, clasping his hands and straightening her shoulders. And then she started to hum. And they started to dance.

It was the same tune they’d heard the night before, the tune of the Little Folk’s gift, but coming from her, it seemed more earthly, lighter, easier to consume. While she hummed, Fenrys led, and they stepped and twirled and swirled carefully amongst her rows of vegetables and fruits, beneath the linen stretched across the garden to protect it from the worst of the sun.

She flowed easily, like a lovely water sprite, cool and soothing in his arms. He moved with her, solid and steady as stone, acting as guide, as balance, as support.

Up one row and down another, until they’d covered the length of the garden, until she was out of breath with sweat glinting along the edges of her hairline. Until she couldn’t hum anymore, and they simply stood, swaying.

A cool breeze fluttered through the garden, and Samira sighed gently, leaning that little bit closer to rest her head on his chest. He couldn’t really feel it, not with the leathers strapped onto him, but he imagined he could.

Imagined he could feel the warmth and slight dampness of her sweat, imagined he could lean down and press a kiss to the top of her head – nothing demanding or claiming, but one of promises, of possibilities. Imagined that he wasn’t who he was, wasn’t contained to the blood oath. Imagined that he was simply a warrior lost in the dark and found by a beautiful woman made of kindness and laughter and brilliance.

Imagined that, gods willing, his life could have been this, simple and peaceful and _happy._

The image broke as she stirred, leaning back to offer a smile up at him. “That was fun.”

Fenrys returned the smile. “You’re welcome.”

Samira kissed her teeth and rolled her eyes, stepped away and releasing his hands. “I suppose you need to leave now if you’re to be back before nightfall.”

Fenrys glanced at the sky, gauging, and then nodded. “But I will be back.” For some reason, he felt the need to clarify, to reassure.

Samira considered that, and considered him, dark eyes seeing so much more than he ever thought they could. After a moment, she nodded, too. “I’ll keep dinner hot.”

He offered one last, quick smile before turning and moving into the woods. Already, the thrill of the hunt was singing in his veins, the bloodlust prickling along his skin.

He hadn’t been made for simple and peaceful, he realised. The cursed gods had made him to be a creature of violence and blood and darkness. And he knew, with painful clarity, that he’d be called back to that soon; sooner than he’d ever like.

But he could enjoy this, the golden warmth and safety of a small home on a mountain, of a dark-haired beauty wherein lived a heart gentle and wild, he could enjoy it now, and when he left, keep the memory of it tucked safely into his heart and mind, there to recall when he needed a bastion once more.

* * *

When Fenrys returned, the sky had darkened completely and the stars were shining. The moon was full and bright, lighting his way easily through the woods. He dragged a large stag behind him. Enough meat to last Samira through the winter, he hoped. Enough to repay her for the kindness and safety – though he knew there was nothing in the world able to do that.

He dropped the body of the stag near enough to the house it’d be easily accessible the next day for skinning and cutting and salting, stringing it up and away from any creature that may try to take it, and then erecting a light shield around it. Easy enough to keep intact whilst he slept.

Samira was sitting at her work table when he walked in, carefully sewing – Fenrys studied it for a moment. A shirt, thick and large and comfortable, by the looks of it. She looked up as soon as he entered, smiling and standing. “How was your hunt?”

“Good.” He had made sure to wash all blood and dirt off his armour and leathers before stepping foot into her small, clean house. “How was your day?”

And it struck him, truly, deeply struck him, how domestic and intimate this was, familiar in the way of a dream he couldn’t quite remember and never would. Samira was already moving towards the kitchen, serving him a bowl of the soup she’d made. “Busy. I’ll probably head to sleep soon.” And then she paused, back still to him, and he scented it, the apprehension, the nervousness; and beneath that, excitement. She was daring herself to do something, say something.

Wordlessly, she turned to face him, approaching and offering the bowl of soup. He had taken three bites when she asked quietly, “Will you be leaving soon?”

Fenrys couldn’t help the frown that pulled on his lips. “Most likely.” He’d been gone far too long; Maeve would be yanking on the oath soon, ordering his return.

Samira’s lips compressed into a small, sad smile even as she inhaled a deep, steadying breath. “I would like if you slept upstairs with me tonight.” The words were small and quiet, and he could sense the heat flaming in her cheeks and down her neck. “The bed is more comfortable and warm than the salon cushions. And,” she wasn’t looking at him anymore, embarrassed and nervous, “I would like to have you near me.”

Fenrys carefully put down his bowl and spoon, reaching his hands out to her. She accepted his touch, letting him pull her closer and closer and closer, until she stood between his knees, his hands placed carefully on her waist. “I would be honoured to be your personal heater.”

She laughed, finally looking at him again, and he grinned back.

She bathed while he ate, and by the time he’d bathed and gotten ready for sleep, she was entirely unconscious to the world, burrowed under her blankets. As if in a trance of wonder, Fenrys crept silently to the other side of the bed, carefully, slowly pulling back the blankets so he could join her.

She shifted as he settled, curling closer to her, pressing her back against his side, dark curls sweeping across his arm and shoulder. He looked down at her with a mix of awe and delight and terror. Her scent surrounded him, thick and lovely, and he closed his eyes, breathing it in happily.

She trusted him so deeply, so truly. She wanted him near, even when she slept. It was another gift, he decided. Another talisman to hold onto when he had to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be ending soon, I'm afraid. It was never meant to be this long, but I've thoroughly enjoyed it, and I hope you all have, too!


	10. Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He left as he'd come..."

Samira knew, as soon as she woke up, it would be her last day with Fenrys.

She could feel it in her bones, feel it in her blood, feel it curling heavy in her stomach and prickling painfully and obviously behind her eyes. She knew, _absolutely knew_ and squeezed her eyes tightly closed, trying not to move, not to think, not to _breathe,_ lest she wake him and he be gone all too soon.

How funny it was, he had shown up barely three days ago, and yet she was ready to cry over him.

How terribly, horribly, funny in such an unwelcome way.

Fenrys was pressed against her back, one arm thrown across her waist, the other beneath her head. She didn’t remember moving into such a position consciously, and, despite the prickling behind her eyes, she smiled.

Of course they’d wake up in such a position.

As if called by her thoughts, Fenrys stirred behind her, fingers flexing against her where they held. She couldn’t help herself from holding him a little tighter, too.

“Good morning, Samira,” he murmured in her ear, a rumble in his chest that she felt more than she heard, and she pressed as close to him as she could.

“Good morning, Fenrys.” At the foot of the bed, Olio stretched and yawned, and Samira smiled at her oldest friend. “And good morning, Olio.”

Fenrys chuckled silently behind her, pulling her closer and burying his face in her hair. He didn’t say anything, though, and she realised it would have to be her. She would have to be the one brave enough to talk about what neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

So, she did.

“You’ll leave today.”

Fenrys stiffened behind her, body going taut, and then he forced himself to relax with a slow exhale. “Perhaps.”

“No,” Samira corrected quietly, “you will. I can feel it.”

He didn’t respond for a long moment, and she could feel his heartbeat thumping in time with hers. How strange. She’d heard of that happening, but had never experienced it.

How intimate.

How lovely.

How – a smile curled on her lips again – _how magical._

Fenrys ran his fingers along her arm. “One last breakfast, then?”

There was such sadness in his voice, such resignation in his touch, and she managed to maneuver around to meet his gaze, managed to bring an arm up to cup his face. That close, his eyes were more than onyx. They were like the darkest night magicked to life, and the morning sunlight glittered in them like stars.

But with that golden hair, with that sweet, sweet heart –

“You remind me of a moon beam.”

Her statement startled both of them, and she felt her cheeks heating in that long-familiar embarrassment. Fenrys just blinked at her, though, and then blinked again, and then, after a long, long moment of not breathing, he smiled.

“I think,” his fingers pressed against her back, urging her just a little closer, “that’s the greatest compliment I’ve ever been afforded by any lover.”

The heat in Samira’s cheeks intensified, but she returned his smile. “Light in darkness,” she tried to explain. It was too early for such a conversation, but he was leaving soon, and he had to know, _he had to know._ “Soft,” her fingers ran through his hair, “gentle,” danced down his cheeks, “brilliant,” and came to a stop above his heart.

His smile had faded to a look infinitely more intense, and it _burned_ her. “Samira,” the growl in his voice was entirely inhuman and feral, and prickled along her skin, “you are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever known.”

Despite the growl, he’d tried to keep his words soft, and her smile widened. “I will miss you, Fenrys. You’re always welcome back here.”

He didn’t move except to lean closer, bury his face in her hair and inhale, long and slow and deep. She wondered what he was doing, wondered if he was trying to force an imprint of her scent onto himself.

She wondered how his queen would react to that, and tried not to worry.

Finally, he began moving, slowing shifting from beneath all her wonderful blankets and stretching the sleep from his muscles and joints. She stared as muscles rippled, stared and realised she’d just spent the night asleep against those muscles.

There was no helping the heat that warmed her cheeks once more.

Fenrys noticed, of course, and gave her that roguish grin. “Now, what’s for breakfast? Porridge? Or you?”

That urged Samira into action, embarrassment intensifying even as she laughed at his crass joke, even as she scrambled down the stairs and he chased playfully after her.

Even as their story came to an end.

She still had this time with him, after all. Just one more breakfast.

* * *

The order jerked at him painfully as he finished strapping on his kit. Fenrys grimaced, trying to ignore the pain in his head that was already forming as he lingered in the house, lingered by Samira, for just a few moments, a few heartbeats longer.

 _Just a little more._ To ingrain the image of the house and the garden to his memory, to spare Olio one last pet on the head, to watch Samira work happily in her garden and to catch her scent as it drifted to him on the wind.

One of kindness, of gentleness, of wildness. Gentle, wild, beautiful thing.

And then one extra moment, to be grateful he’d at least had the opportunity to finish fulfilling his one small promise to her, of providing enough food for winter. Skinning and cutting and preparing the stag for storage. One extra moment, to touch that dream of domesticity and simplicity one more time. _Just one more time._

He left as he’d come, at the urging of an order, silently, and Samira watched from her home, until he was at the crest of a ridge. Until he paused and turned, raising one hand in farewell, and she raised one, too, and they left all their unspoken words and dreamt promises to the wind and the mountain.

And then he was gone, in a flash of that Fae speed, and she returned to her garden, Olio basking in the sunlight on one of the nearby stones.

If there were tears in her eyes, the plants were kind enough not to notice.

* * *

She began the trip to town the next day, bringing her tent, her food, and her trusted companion. True to history, Olio kept away the night demons, and kept her warm, and sometimes – in the silent of the night, or the dappled sunlight of the day – she thought perhaps there was a creature of magic and onyx and gold lingering near enough to make sure she made it safe.

That was when, looking back, she had realised she loved him.


	11. Epilogue: The Road Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenrys chooses a new name for himself, and takes Aelin to see what could have been home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I can't remember how, exactly, the name conversation happens in the book, and don't have access to the book at this time, so it may or may not match canon.

They were teasing about names, Aelin and everyone else. His court. His family.

 _His,_ and Fenrys tucked that into his heart, right next to the talismans Samira had left him nearly eighty years ago.

He’d thought about her often, in that darkness he’d been forced to endure with Aelin. Her touch, her smile, her laughter; even her cat. Over the years, he’d forgotten what, exactly, she smelled like, and what her voice sounded like, and even what her smile looked like. But he remembered that she laughed often, and her touch was gentle, and that she was a kiss of kindness he hadn’t known he’d needed.

A light in the darkness, as she’d once called him.

They were teasing about names, and he knew he was soon to be questioned. Something heavy and bitter coated his tongue at the thought of his name, of the one he’d shared with Connall, at the one Maeve had known him by. He didn’t want it any more than he wanted his magic – the magic that, like his name, had been shared with his brother.

Aelin turned to him, beautiful eyes sparkling in delight. Oh, but it soothed the edges of his ragged, shattered soul to see that familiar spark beginning to return. “You know, I don’t know your last name.”

“Moonbeam.” It was out before he could think, before he could comprehend, and Rowan and Lorcan each gave him odd, subtle looks. They didn’t contradict him, though, and Aelin positively flared with a wicked sort of happiness.

“Fenrys _Moonbeam._ ” There was a promise of many jokes at his expense in her voice, and he didn’t mind, _he didn’t mind,_ because she was thinking of joking, because she was able to smile, _because he was here, with his court, with his family, and in a distant memory, warm, dark hands ran through his hair and down his face to rest above his heart._

 _“Soft, gentle, brilliant._ ”

A name he’d wear with pride.

* * *

Aelin had permitted the trip without a second thought, curiosity burning in her words and eyes. After a moment of hesitation and a glance at Rowan, Fenrys had said, “I think you should come, too.”

It was a gift he could offer his queen – his wonderful, beloved queen. A gift of adventure, of friendship, _of kindness._

Oddly, Aelin hadn’t bounded from her seat at his invitation. Instead, she’d considered him, and it, and then tipped her chin in a small nod – a small bow, he realised – and answered quietly, “I think I would like to.”

He remembered the way through the mountains to the homestead easily, no matter that it’d been the better part of a century, no matter that the world had changed and burned and been reborn. It was so easy, so simple, like following the known path home.

Aelin was grand company, and they had a good time, just them, in their companionship and their comfort for each other. They’d sit together at night, pressed side-by-side, staring at the stars.

They shared words, memories, reassurances, and Fenrys wasn’t sure if it was the mountain or something else, but he could almost feel a quiet sort of peace trickling into him the closer they got. He wondered if Aelin felt it, too. He didn’t ask, though, because as soon as they were as close as a three-days walk, the Little Folk began guiding them.

He didn’t need their help, but he remembered the gift they’d given him, remembered their odd relationship with Samira, and watched as Aelin wore every new crown left along the path.

He didn’t ask about that, either.

There was a certain peace in her gaze, a certain settling to her movements, as if the nervous, painful energy of their nightmares was being wiped away.

By the time the house came into view, they had both reached an odd state of relaxation and stillness that neither had known for a long, long time.

“Is that it?” Aelin’s question was nothing more than a gentle nudge to get him moving from where he stood rooted to the mountain.

 _You’re always welcome back here,_ she’d said. He just hoped it wasn’t too late.

Fenrys had to swallow once before he could speak. “It is.”

Aelin studied him for a moment, and blinked thrice. He wanted to answer, but he didn’t know, he truly didn’t, and she blinked four times, reached a hand out to him. He gripped it tightly, thoughtlessly, drawing strength he hadn’t realised he needed.

They lingered just long enough for him to _breathe_ , and then he began the way down to the house.

* * *

A young girl opened the door, blinking large, dark eyes at him. “Nannie says she doesn’t want doctors anymore.”

That certainly wasn’t what he’d expected, and he blinked back at her. Behind him, he could hear Aelin stifling snickers. “Good thing I’m not a doctor.”

The little thing just continued to study him owlishly, and another, male voice sounded from further inside the house. “Laila, who is it?”

“A man who says he’s not a doctor,” she called back.

From the movement he could detect, there was another three – no, four people inside. Quite a full house then.

Footsteps approached, and a larger hand swung the door further open, revealing a boy who couldn’t have been more than seventeen. He had a baby propped on one hip, a towel thrown across his shoulder, and sweat gleaming on his forehead. “Hi. Who are you?” Not friendly, but not unwelcoming.

Wary.

And then the boy’s eyes reached Fenrys’s ears, and an odd look of understanding crossed his face. “Let him,” Aelin cleared her throat delicately from behind Fenrys and the boy quickly amended his statement, “ _them_ in. They’re here for Nannie.”

Laila scowled and crossed her arms. “I _know_. I’m not a _baby._ ” And proceeded to stomp away.

Aelin didn’t bother to hide the snickers as she followed Fenrys across the threshold, thanking the boy for their hospitality.

He was too lost in memories to remember manners, too far gone in the past to fully comprehend the present he was currently witness to. A house full of laughter, full of life, full of _love._

“She’s upstairs.”

The proximity of the boy’s voice startled him somewhat, and Fenrys glanced at him. The boy shrugged. “You’re her favourite story to tell. And this morning she said to expect a visitor so,” he gestured the stairs with a hand, shifting the baby to his other hip, “she’s upstairs.” He turned away, and then hesitated and asked, “Will you be staying for supper?”

“Yes.” Fenrys was so glad Aelin was keeping it together, because he _wasn’t_.

He’d forgotten what she smelled like, and here it was, ready for him to inhale and embrace and _remember._

At the edges of his awareness, Aelin reached for the child and grabbed another towel, tossing it over her own shoulder. “But, I’ll help. I’m a fantastic chef.”

The boy didn’t argue, shrugging and leading her to the kitchen area.

Fenrys moved to the stairs, too slowly, too quickly. And then he was climbing them. And then he was at the top. And then he was at the door of her room.

She was sitting in bed, old and grey and wrinkled, but when she met his gaze, when she _smiled –_

He gasped desperately, fingers gripping the doorframe so hard the wood creaked, and she held a withered, trembling hand to him. “Welcome home, Fenrys.”

He was there in the next breath, with that Fae speed, ever so aware of how fragile she was now, of how familiar she was after so many years.

Her arms, once so strong, still managed to retain some sort of wiry strength as she wrapped them around him, somehow pulling him closer. He huddled into her, against her, letting it all wash over him.

A warm fire against the cold of Death, a golden burst of laughter when he’d forgotten what honesty was, a touch of kindness in the darkness –

 _Safe, safe, safe,_ just as she’d made sure he was all those decades ago.

For the first time in a very long time, he cried, he _sobbed,_ and Samira held him and loved him, and it was hours later when Aelin found them. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed as she studied them in that blank way of hers.

Fenrys had managed to curl himself entirely around the woman that was impossibly small in her old age. His arms were wrapped around her, head in her lap, and she was lovingly running her fingers through his beautiful golden hair. He was asleep – or so exhausted he allowed everyone to believe he was. The woman wasn’t, though, and when she met Aelin’s gaze, she held out a hand, a silent invitation.

Aelin hesitated, stared, swallowed. She could smell the salt of tears, could smell the pain and the heaviness – the _relief_ , the _contentment,_ the _love._

Wordlessly, soundlessly, she approached the bed. There was just enough room for her to stretch out against Fenrys. He shifted for her, maneuvering so one arm was still around the old woman, and the other around Aelin.

Not asleep, then. His eyes didn’t open, though, and he didn’t say anything, and when the old woman held her hand out to Aelin again, palm up, the young woman carefully placed her fingers in it. There was something soothing in that touch, something comforting; a sense of security, perhaps.

Downstairs, the sounds of child-induced chaos echoed, and Aelin smiled even as she felt her own eyes beginning to drift shut.

Odd, to find such a place of warmth and kindness on the side of such an unforgiving mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This story was so much fun to write! Thank you so much for all the love; I never expected it to get as much attention as it did. You guys are so wonderful.
> 
> This all started because I wanted the story behind Fenrys's last name - and here we are now! Also, there aren't enough Fenrys fics, in my humble opinion.
> 
> I'll be doing more Fenrys stories in the future, hopefully, so stick around if you're interested ;)


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